


Phone a Friend

by sans_patronymic



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Bad Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Humor, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 17:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: The Briefs household is on red alert when Bulma decides to make dinner.





	Phone a Friend

The ball of _ki_ whizzed through the air, missing Vegeta by a hair’s breadth. He tried to turn—it was behind him now—but his bones felt sluggish. Hell, with the controls up this high, even his _teeth_ were heavy. He swiveled and ducked just in time. Ducking had been a bad idea; he wasn’t so sure he could straighten up again.

Suddenly, the walls groaned, the lights brightened from red to white, robots dropping uselessly to floor as the Gravity Chamber powered down. The door opened, revealing a small boy silhouetted against the brightness outside. Vegeta caught the _ki_, letting it dissipate in his hand before it could do any damage.

“Trunks!” he raged, “How many times have I told you never to disturb me! The emergency switch is not a toy!”

“This _is_ an emergency!”

Vegeta stepped from the Gravity Chamber, squinting against the sun. His eyes scanned over the compound. No smoke. He looked to his son—no cuts, no missing limbs.

“Hmph. What emergency?”

“Mom’s cooking dinner!”

“Damn.” That _was_ an emergency.

“What are we going to do?”

Retreat was cowardly, but a wise man knew when he was outmatched.

“We’re leaving before she notices.”

“Oh, no, you’re not!” said Bulma, stepping though the patio door and marching up to them like an Amazon on the warpath. An Amazon in a kitten-printed apron. “You two are not going _anywhere_!”

Trunks ducked behind his father’s legs. Vegeta folded his arms across his chest and flashed his best ‘surely you see resistance means death’ smile. It’d been nearly six months since he was last subjected to Bulma’s lamentable cooking and he didn’t see any reason his good luck should end now.

“Why bother with so pedestrian an activity when we can afford others to cook for us?”

“You mean _I _can afford them,” she said, waving a spatula in his face, “Your ass can’t afford shit.”

“Colorful metaphor, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“Why does anyone do anything in this family? To prove that I can!”

Damn. He couldn’t argue with that.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll see,” Bulma insisted, bending down to smile comfortingly at their son. “I got the recipe from Aunt Chi-Chi. You like Aunt Chi-Chi’s cooking, right, kiddo?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about!” She straightened herself and started back towards the house, “Dinner’ll be ready in about forty-five minutes. I expect your butts at the table by then. If they aren’t… it’ll really hurt my feelings.”

The patio door slammed shut. Trunks cast a timid glance up at his father.

“What are we going to do now?”

“We’re going to train. If we’re hungry enough, we won’t care what we’re eating.”

“Just a minute, just a minute!” Chi-Chi yelled to the ringing phone in the other room, as if it could hear her. She scurried down the hall to answer it. “Hello?”

“Chi-Chi, you’ve got to help me!” a voice bellowed from the other end of the line.

“Bulma? What’s wrong?”

“How much sesame oil do you use?”

“What? Sesame oil? …Don’t you have the recipe I sent you?”

“Yeah and you just wrote ‘drizzle in _some_ sesame oil’. What kind of dumbass instruction is that? How much is ‘some’? Like, a tablespoon?”

“Definitely not a tablespoon. I don’t know… just a bit.”

“How much is a bit?”

“I don’t know… enough? Until it tastes right?”

“What the fuck kind of measurement is that?!” Bulma screamed. Chi-chi held the phone away from her ear until profanities died down. “Sorry. This is like… a lot, you know? I wish you didn’t live so far away—I’d make you come fix it.”

“A teaspoon.”

“What?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s about a teaspoon of sesame oil.”

“Okay. A teaspoon. Thanks.”

“And make sure you pat the pork chops dry before you fry them—otherwise the oil spatters.”

“Pat the pork chops—got it.”

“You’ll do great. Like I said before, it’s basically foolproof.”

“Yeah, well… thanks, Cheech.”

Chi-chi smiled into the receiver. “Send me a picture when it’s done.”

“Will do.”

Bulma Briefs knew she was smart. Definitely the smartest person on Earth. Probably the smartest person in the galaxy. She could take one look at a fried alien motherboard and have the system up and running again—in English—in about twenty-four hours. Hell, she was theoretically capable of building a goddamn time machine.

So why couldn’t she cook to save her life?

It was probably to be expected, after spending the last fifteen years or so surviving on Cup'o'Noodles and coffee. Still, the agony of defeat stung and she refused to let this be a black mark against her forever. All she needed was one good meal—one good win—and that would be enough. For now.

She had really thought today would be her day, especially after the pep talk from Chi-chi. But the pork chops seemed rubbery, she didn’t know the difference between a ‘soft boil’ and a ‘rolling boil’, and Chi-chi’s instructions were vastly more confusing than a Namekian circuit board. Bulma looked at the clock; in ten minutes, two bottomless pits of Saiyan hunger were going to be sitting at the table. If she cried in the rice, would it still taste okay?

Reluctantly, she reached for the phone and hit redial. The line trilled—once, twice, a third time—then a click and the unmistakable warble of a teenage boy.

“Son residence, this is Gohan speaking. Who, may I ask, is calling?”

“Gohan? It’s Bulma Briefs, I—wait… do you guys _still_ not have caller-id?”

“Hi, Miss Bulma. No, we do. That’s just how my mom says you’re supposed to answer the phone.”

Classic Chi-chi. Maybe she was a little smothering, but at least her kids had manners. The last time Trunks answered the phone, he’d treated the caller to his finest selection of fart sounds.

“And she is _so_ right. Speaking of your mom, is she there? It’s kind of urgent.”

“Yeah, just a sec—“

Bulma heard Gohan take a deep breath and managed to pull the phone away from her ear just in time to avoid the deafening cry of ‘MOM!’. At least some bad habits were universal. On the stove, the sauce sputtered, a large bubble slowly rising to the surface and popping with aplomb. Could sauces have aplomb? Probably.

“Bulma, honey? How’s it going?”

“Hi, Chi-chi. Sorry to call again. Two things. First thing: it just says ‘cook sauce until thickened’. What does that mean? How do you know when it’s thickened?”

“The sauce? Hmm… well, give it a good five minutes, first. Then, if you dip a spoon in it, the sauce should kinda stick to the spoon instead of all dripping off. Once it sticks, you’re probably fine.”

“Stick to the spoon, stick to the spoon…”

Bulma fished through the silverware drawer for a spoon and plunged it into the pot. The sauce certainly did not drip off. If anything, it coagulated.

“Okay… I think that’s… fine… Second thing: the dressing separated. Help.”

“Totally normal,” Chi-chi said, “Just mix it up again before you serve the salad. If you put it in a jar, then all you have to do is shake it.”

“A jar? What jar?”

“Just a jar. Like, any empty jar.”

“Who _the fuck _has empty jars?”

“Oops—that’s my oven timer. Got to go!”

“No, wait, Chi-chi!” Bulma pleaded, but the line was already dead.

“Ta-da! Pork chops à la Chi-chi!”

Bulma set down the last of the serving dishes with a flourish. She looked at the spread with no small amount of pride and took her seat.

“And all without cutting myself, burning myself, and I only set off the smoke alarm once.”

“Good job, mom!”

“Thank you, Trunks. Don’t be shy, you two. Dig in!”

They set upon it like wolves, flinging bits of rice and stray cucumber slices as they went. Vegeta’s plan had worked, were too hungry to hesitate. But after the first few mouthfuls, once the initial thrill of food had worn off and their tongues caught up to their stomachs, their pace slowed to a crawl. Bulma smiled at them expectantly.

“Well?”

Father and son exchanged a look. Trunks hastily took an extra-large bite—can't talk with a full mouth. Cheater. Bulma’s gaze settled on Vegeta. Damn.

“The salad has merit,” Vegeta announced.

“Yes!” Bulma tossed her hands in the air and sighed with relief. She turned to her son. “What about the pork chops? How’s the sauce for them?”

“It’s… um… brown?”

“It is brown,” Vegeta agreed.

“It’s supposed to be brown,” Bulma pointed out.

“Then it succeeds at that.”

“How does it taste?”

“You should try it.”

Bulma frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s indescribable.”

“It kinda tastes like burnt popcorn,” Trunks offered. Vegeta nodded, sucking the tacky remains of a sauce blob from one of his teeth.

Bruised, but unbroken, Bulma took that one on the chin. The sauce was doomed from the beginning. Too much aplomb.

“What about the pork itself?”

“It’s okay,” Trunks said with the wistful shrug of a seven year old who would have rather had chicken nuggets again.

“It’s chewy, like…” Vegeta tried to recall the texture. “Is it the brains of the animal?”

“What? No!” Bulma huffed, “Pork chops are like the… legs or the butt or something—hold on, when have you eaten brains?”

Vegeta opened his mouth to answer, before glancing at Trunks. Not exactly family story time material. He turned to Bulma and muttered, “I’ll tell you later.”

“Whoa, whose brain did you eat?” Trunks asked, wide-eyed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Did you really—“

“I said, ‘don’t worry about it.’ Eat your dinner.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s lying,” Bulma said to her son and moved some pork chops à la gelatinous sauce around her plate. No matter what they said, she made it and she was going to eat it. She took a bite.

“Ugh. That _is_ bad.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Vegeta reminded her. “Trunks, did you say it was bad?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, I get it. You’re both polite when you want to be. _I’m_ saying it: this is bad. Where’s the rest of that salad?”

“Dad ate it.”

“_All_ of it?”

“It was good.”

“You know what?” Bulma tossed her napkin onto the table. “I’m going to call it there. You liked the salad. That’s enough victory for one day.”

“Where are you going, Mom?”

“I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago.” Bulma picked up the phone for the third time that day. She hit the speed dial and declared: “I’m ordering pizza.”


End file.
